A Song for the Aftermath
by She Ain't No Blondie
Summary: When you no longer have to worry about dying, you start to wonder about living. Fem!Cousland/Alistair/Cullen
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Song for the Aftermath

**Summary:** When you no longer have to worry about dying, you start to wonder about living. Fem!Cousland/Alistair/Cullen

**Author's notes:** Let's see how this works. Anora remains on the throne. Fem!Cousland, Annabelle for this story, has not had a romance with any of her companions. After all, that's what the after party is for, right?

*

If there is one thing that Annabelle is certain of is that Lady Isolde is a manipulative shrew.

"Take Connor to the Circle?" Alistair echoes.

All Annabelle can think about is that it's been barely a week since they slayed the archdemon, and all she wants is to finally peel the leather armor off her skin, and take a bath, preferably with bubbles, not trek all the way to the Circle again with a boy who knows she had considered killing him and his mother.

"I would not ask, but they will not allow us to go with him, and I would rather he go with you than with those… Templars," says Lady Isolde, and Annabelle knows she's talking to Alistair, not to her, because Alistair's loyalty is to Eamon, who is disappointed because Anora is still on the throne, and Alistair feels like he has to make up for it somehow.

"Well, Wynn is having her ceremony," Alistair says, uncertainly.

Annabelle sighs.

"It will be like another adventure, no?" says Zevran, who has been uncharacteristically silent up to this point.

"_You _don't need to come," Alistair says.

"My oath is to my dear Grey Warden," Zevran says, amused. "I go where she goes."

And Annabelle knows it means, _I'll go where she goes, and get on your nerves, too!_

"I guess we could take Connor," she says slowly. And she looks at him, _really looks at him_, and he's just a boy, who looks overwhelmed and on the point of tears, and she feels sorry for me—

Because, you know, she _did_ try to kill him.

"And stay the week and help Wynn rebuilt the Circle and take her vows as First Enchanter," she continues, and she can't help but sigh.

"Excellent! Eamon and I will feel reassured that Connor travels in your care," Isolde says, and even Annabelle can tell that means, _If anything happens to him, we will hunt you down_.

Isolde and Connor leave, probably to pack trunks among trunks of stuff for them to take, and Alistair just falls into a chair, smiling.

"Didn't see that one coming," he says. He isn't wearing any armor, only regular clothes, like he's _normal_ and Annabelle wonders where he got them from because the pants are too tight and the shirt is not his color.

"She is quite a clever woman," Zevran says, appreciatively.

Annabelle feels out of place in Arl Eamon's estate. Even though she is—_was?_—a noble, she now thinks of herself only as a Grey Warden—dirty, out of place, depressed—and she realizes that in all her years, she never had male friends. She was young, of good parents, so of course they were waiting for her to marry someone of nobility, and therefore they had to prevent _accidents_, and, after surviving, Annabelle is becoming painfully aware of how Alistair smells like wood, and Zevran smells like leather and cinnamon, and it's intoxicating, and all she wanted to do was spend a week by herself, without _men_, and think about normal things like shoes or kittens or boyfriends who weren't capable of wielding a sword.

"Your mind is elsewhere, my dear," says Zevran, and he has that look, like he knows exactly what she's thinking.

"Just wishing we had a week staying put," Annabelle admits.

"Well, at least we get to avoid Anora's coronation," Alistair says. "She's been staring daggers at me all evening. I bet she can't wait to be rid of us."

"She'll be mad, though," Annabelle says. "If the Heroes of Ferelden aren't there to support her coronation, I mean."

"Ah, but that is not for us to worry about," Zevran says. He stretches, and Annabelle can see how lean he is, and she sighs wistfully, which is unfortunate because Alistair is no fool and he narrows his eyes at her.

"We should best go to bed," Annabelle finally says. "Isolde will probably have everything ready for us early tomorrow."

They part ways, and it's when Annabelle makes it to her bedroom that she realizes how strange everything is when you're no longer on a campsite, and you feel alone. She pulls her dagger out of its sheathe, and tucks it under her pillow.

Just in case.

*

"I am sorry to burden you," Connor says.

He isn't as talkative as he was when he was possessed, so it takes Annabelle by surprise. "Oh, no," she says, lamely, "you're not. We're glad to be your escorts."

He smiles at her, even though it's weak, and she smiles back, and wants to say, _I know you're scared, but Wynn is there, and she's _nice_._

She doesn't like the boat ride. It's bumpy and the waves make her nervous. Alistair is entertaining Connor with stories, and the Templar who is accompanying them across looks _appalled_ that a little boy is listening to _those_ kinds of stories.

The Tower looms over them as they finally make it there, and Annabelle wonders how long it'll take to find new mages and train new Templars.

"Doesn't look as frightening any more, does it?" Alistair whispers, standing just barely behind her. His breath tickles her ear. "Not after we've seen it as its worst."

She nods, because he's right. And then Wynn appears, looking tired but happy, and Annabelle can't help but fling herself into the older woman's arms.

"Maker's breath, Annabelle," Wynn says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. "You are too old for this. Ah, Connor, very nice to see you again, boy."

Connor stammers a greeting.

"I would like to escort Connor to meet his fellow mages," Wynn says. "This is Cullen, he will be your host while you're here."

"Aw, come on, Wynn, we'll behave," Alistair says, but Wynn rolls her eyes.

Annabelle stares at the Templar, who looks awfully familiar, but she can't put her finger on who he is. He is looking back at her, and he looks ready to both run and strike her down on the spot.

Wynn scans over their little party, her eyes widening slightly at the amount of luggage Isolde sent with them, and then she says, "I thought Zevran was gracing us with his presence."

"He was," Annabelle says, "but we ran into Leliana before we left Denerim, and they both decided to go visit the Dalish. Apparently they're a little frazzled after the war."

"A wise decision," Wynn agrees. "Leliana will soothe their worries, and report back to the Court. Zevran, well, I'm sure it sounded more exciting to him than being cooped up here."

Wynn takes Connor by the shoulder, and they leave. Cullen is still waiting, looking uncomfortable, as though he's unsure about what to do with them.

"Oh, I remember you," Alistair finally says, and Annabelle perks up. "You were the Templar trapped in that cage thingy. You wanted us to burn the place down."

Cullen looks miserable, and he clears his throat. "Yes, well. First Enchanter Wynn has asked me to show you to your quarters."

Annabelle likes her room, which is across from Alistair's, and even though you can still seem some of the blood on the floor, it smells nice, like freshly cut flowers, and she thinks that this is the best place to be right now, with Alistair and Wynn and a tower full of nervous mages and Templars.

"If there is anything I can get for you," Cullen begins, and Annabelle smiles at him.

"Thank you, Cullen. It's very nice." She pauses, because he _still_ looks uncomfortable. "You were very strong to have survived… what you did," she says.

But it's not the right thing because he becomes pale, and she knows that look—the look Alistair had when he woke up after Duncan had died.

"I would have preferred to have died with them," Cullen whispers.

"But you didn't. So now you live for them." Annabelle reached out to touch his arm, but he instinctively flinches like she might be made of fire. "My parents died," she tells him. "And then I became a Grey Warden, and they died. It seems the past year has been about everyone dying except for me. But I live on. I do what I do, even though I'm scared, and unsure, and Maker knows, under qualified, but I do it for them, and that seems to work out in the end."

They stare at each other, and Annabelle knows he's struggling with himself. Finally, he says, "Thank you."

So she keeps smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

Wynn's vows is an interesting event. The Templars want to pretend they're still _in charge_, but Greagoir is tired and irritated and argues with Wynn about everything from what is acceptable displays of magic in the hallways to whether or not Templars should sit down to eat with the mages.

The mages, what's left of them, are excited, because Wynn is more intimidating than Irving was, and she expects Templars to be useful rather than just moody, plus she only rolls her eyes when they do fun things like make water freeze so the Templars can't take a bath.

There's a mage from Orlais who is here to ensure that Wynn accepts her vows, which is a little strange because the mage looks too young. But Wynn looks amazing, in robes adorned with gold lining, and she recites everything perfectly.

"Connor seems to be fitting in well," Alistair whispers to Annabelle.

"Yes, Wynn said he seems to be relaxing," Annabelle answers, and they're being glared at by Greagoir. "I already received a letter from Lady Isolde. I suspect she had it sent the moment we left."

"That woman was always a step ahead," Alistair says, with a grin.

And then he grabs her hand, and even though the Tower is generally cold, Annabelle feels oddly warm.

"We survived," he whispers to her, and squeezes her hand gently.

Annabelle wants to say, _Yes, because you slept with Morrigan instead of sleeping with _me, but it would take away from the moment.

She doesn't let go of his hand, because this must be what happiness feels like, when you've fought and survived and pretend to ignore the elephant in the room.

"Was it… ok?" she asked, lamely, when he had finally come out of Morrigan's room, and Annabelle was curled up in front of his bedroom door like a pathetic puppy.

"We got the job done," he answered, and looks uncomfortable.

She smiles, because she wants him to know that it's ok and she won't hold it against me, so she accidentally says, "Does she lick lampposts in the winter?"

And Alistair is a very bad shade of red, and she's probably not far off from the same, and then they just laugh because it couldn't get much worse than this.

Annabelle hasn't mentioned that Zevran and Leliana aren't really off looking for the Dalish. Instead, they received a tip that Morrigan was still around, and Annabelle asked them to go, find her, and just make sure that everything is all right. She doesn't hate Morrigan, she can't, but she feels hurt that the witch would leave so quickly, carrying Alistair's child.

Wynn's vows have finished and some of the younger mages make the air crackle with electricity, and you can see how every Templar—Cullen included—has reached for their swords, waiting for Greagoir to have a breakdown. But the Knight-Commander only sighs, and announces that now everyone can get back to studying or working or _something_, but just get out.

"Congratulations, Wynn," Alistair says. "You now have an army of children and tired mages."

"Thank you, Alistair," Wynn says, without missing a beat. "I have received a letter from Queen Anora, did I mention?"

Alistair groans, but Annabelle isn't surprised. She knows Anora probably has a dozen scouts throughout Ferelden watching their moves, afraid they are still conspiring for her throne.

"It was very nice, all congratulations and talk of the weather," Wynn continues. "Although, clearly she is concerned about what you two will be doing next."

"We were thinking of recruiting new Grey Wardens," Annabelle says. "We need to build them up again, especially in Ferelden. Alistair and I were thinking that, once we can assure Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde that Connor is fitting in, we would travel around for a bit."

"It's what Duncan would want," Alistair adds. "Can't let the Grey Wardens die down now."

"It sounds like a noble adventure," Wynn agrees. "I might have an idea for your first recruit, but I need to consider it a little bit more."

"Is it Petra?" Alistair asks, and, Annabelle thinks, a little too eagerly. "I saw her do that thing to weapons—make them all electrifi-y."

Wynn just raises an eyebrow.

*

Shortly after Ostagar, when Annabelle was still getting use to going from a nice bed to a tent, she used to entertain herself by thinking of what ifs. What if she had stayed with her parents, what if she just left the Grey Wardens, what if she finally got the courage to kiss Alistair.

What ifs don't really mean anything, but they help pass the time.  
The Tower is kind of boring and drab, and even though Wynn gives them tasks like cleaning out the library or showing the Templars how to be less aggressive, Annabelle still has this twitch in her muscles, an urge to go out and keep fighting. She thinks the taint has finally found every crevice in her body, and now it's not so much a part of her, but actually her.

So she looks at Cullen, who still follows her and Alistair around, and asks, "Would you like to train with me?"

Cullen snaps back to attention, looking confused. "Sorry?" he asks.

"I'm feeling a little restless, and I was wondering if you wanted to," she makes fighting hand gestures, which doesn't think it coming across quite as she would like.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to," Cullen says.

"Oh, of course. Yeah, we wouldn't want you to get your butt kicked," Annabelle agrees. "Greagoir would be mad."

She didn't think he would, but he takes the bait, and agrees. So Annabelle throws on her armor and collects her swords. She avoids telling Alistair, because he still insists she should fight with a shield, but they're big and clunky and, really, when you're being attacked isn't your instinct just to stab things?

Cullen and Annabelle meet at the training ground, which is mostly empty except for a few Templars and some mages. They eye the pair with curiosity, but leave them alone.

"Rules?" asks Cullen.

"What?"

"Are there any fighting rules?" Cullen repeats, like she's stupid.

Annabelle laughs, because there are no rules in the real world, but for this sake, she says, "First one on the floor loses?"

Cullen nods. He's big and bulky like Alistair is, and Annabelle is a rogue, so she already knows she's got this in the bag. She likes holding a sword in each hand, and she twirls them, enjoying the familiarity.

She strikes first, and, Maker's teeth, Cullen is faster than he looks. He seems to effortless dodge her, her sword clanging with his shield. Annabelle takes in a deep breath, and avoids his incoming blow. She overestimated him. She thought that as a Templar of the Circle he wouldn't have a lot of _real_ fighting experience, but he's coming at her, and he's almost as good as Alistair.

He raises his sword, and she sidesteps him, driving the hilt of her sword into his back. He stumbles, and Annabelle takes that opportunity to reiterate her attacks. He whirls around, his sword just barely managing to stop her blow. She tries again, moving from side to side, knowing that he will get tired quicker than she will.

And then she isn't quite sure how it happened, but he sidestepped her, and his shield is on the floor, and her feet are being kicked from underneath her, and she falls hard on her back, the air blown out of her lungs. Cullen takes the opportunity to sit on her, holding her wrists to the ground.

"Well," Annabelle mutters, once she can breathe again. "I guess I was too cocky. You're a good fighter, Cullen."

"Thank you," he mutters, but he's still holding onto her, and his heavy armor is digging into her ribs.

Annabelle stares back, and she recognizes the loneliness in his eyes, and, by the Maker, she needs to stop picking up abandoned puppies.

She is also aware that most of the people around her are staring. The Templars are cheering on Cullen's victory, which is embarrassing because _she_ slayed the archdemon, not him, and then someone clears their throat.

"I think you can get off her now." It's Alistair, and he does not look happy.


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair is glaring at her, and Annabelle is all stammers and blushes, because he's never been angry at _her_ before and it's unnerving and makes her stomach churn and—

Maker's breath, why is Cullen still _sitting_ on her?

Alistair is waiting for an answer, but Cullen is looking at her, and she, in turn, doesn't really know what to do so she closes her eyes and waits.

Nothing seems to happen.

"Er, maybe you could," she begins, and then all of a sudden Cullen is apologizing and getting off her.

"What is going on, Annabelle?" Alistair asks.

"We were just training," she answers. "No harm done."

And she's not stupid and she notices the look between Alistair and Cullen, but she doesn't understand it, and all off a sudden she's been dragged, by Alistair, away from Cullen and the Templars who are still cheering him on.

"Alistair," she tries to get a word in, but he's not listening to her, and her arm is starting to hurt. "_Alistair_."

They're in his room, and it's not quite as nice as hers, and he's saying something, but it's hard to understand him because it's all muttering and cursing and—

"Like he wanted to eat you alive," Alistair finishes, glaring at her.

"Um, what?" Annabelle asks.

"Him, the Templar, I don't like him," says Alistair.

"Oh." Annabelle stares at Alistair, and he stares back.

"I don't think you should spend time with him anymore," Alistair says.

"Oh, really?" Annabelle challenges.

"Reaaaaally," Alistair agrees.

Annabelle rolls her eyes. "You're being silly. He's not a bad person. Wynn trusts him."

But Alistair has crossed the room, and he's standing right in front of her, their foreheads touching, and for a second they do nothing except breathe. "Can I?" he whispers.

"Can you—" but he didn't wait, and he's kissing her.

It's wet and a little odd, but it makes Annabelle's stomach jump and her muscles tense like she's about to enter a fight, and she _loves_ that feeling, so she kisses back. Alistair picks her up, and suddenly they're on the bed, and he's doing this thing where he hasn't exactly stopped kissing her but her armor seems to have disappeared.

"You are beautiful," he says, and she blushes because only Zevran has ever said that to her and everyone knows Zevran doesn't exactly hold the highest standards.

Annabelle is a person who takes charge. So she does exactly that, and undoes his pants and—surprise!—it's exactly how she'd thought it'd always be like, and she touches it which makes Alistair make a gurgling moan sort of noise and she giggles, because, honestly, it's not like it takes much to make him incoherent.

But there's all kinds of touching, and she likes that; it makes her skin feel like it's on fire, and she desperately wants to feel Alistair inside of her, but he's doing something with his mouth and her breast, and, Maker, she hopes he didn't learn that from Morrigan (but who wants to think of Morrigan anyway?), so she squirms a little and maybe even begs a little and then—

_Oh_. So this is what peaceful victory feels like, without the bloodshed and swords and—

"If you stop, I'll kill you," Annabelle mutters.

Well, maybe it's a little violent.

And then he flips her, so she's on top, and she can seem him, looking happy and peaceful, and it makes her feel better about them and the state of Denerim and that, despite everything, they at least have each other.

When they're finished, Alistair pulls him to her, and he whispers something into her skin, that she can't understand, but she's pretty sure it's _I love you_, and that's a promise she's willing to hold him to.

*

Even though Cullen doesn't consider his win against the Grey Warden anything special, his peers do, and it's all they talk about for the rest of the day.

"Didn't you hear? Cullen gave that prissy little Warden a good bashing."

"Good job, Cullen! You showed her her place."

"I would have liked to be on top of a girl like that."

Greagoir isn't very pleased, and gives Cullen a lecture on respecting guests, especially ones that hold the title of Hero of Ferelden, and Cullen tries to explain that she asked him, but it's all in vain and Greagoir punishes him by giving him the night shift of the second floor.

Then dinner time comes along, and the Templars have finally settled down, and all Cullen wants to do is eat so he can leave, but then _she_ comes in, and he immediately knows something is different, because she's smiling a different kind of smile, and the Bastard Prince is standing awfully close to her, like she might try to run away.

"Cullen!" she says, spotting him. She sits down next to him, and he sighs.

"Lady Cousland," he answers, politely.

"Don't be, silly. It's Annabelle," she says. "Wynn says I got you into trouble with Greagoir. I'm really sorry. You are a very good soldier."

"Thank you," says Cullen, but he's aware that her companion is staring at him, so he dismisses himself.

He wishes she would just leave. She's too pretty, and he's too vulnerable, and it makes him think about thoughts he had when he was trapped by the desire demon, and the promises of a wife and children and normal life make him want to explode.

"Cullen!"

He turns around, and she's walking up to him. Did she _follow _him?

She's without Alistair, and she smiles at him. "I would like to extend an invitation to you," she says.

"S—sorry?" Cullen is confused, because he doesn't understand what kind of invitation she could possibly have.

"We're recruiting new Grey Wardens, and Wynn highly recommended you, and I agree, I think you would make an excellent Warden," Annabelle explains.

"I—I—" Cullen falters, because he doesn't know what to think. "This is my home," he settles for.

"We need good soldiers like you. Strong ones, who can't be easily broken," she says, and they both know what she's talking about.

He's still quiet, torn, because, yes, it's be amazing to see a world outside of the Tower, but at the same time traveling with her would be painful and humiliating, and he doesn't think he's _that_ strong.

"Will you think about it?" Annabelle finally asks. "Alistair and I are leaving the day after tomorrow. If you would like to join us, we would be honored."

"Thank you," Cullen says, and she leaves him to his night shift, which is boring and lonely, but at least he has some time to think.


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen was waiting for them. It was too early and too cold, and all Alistair wanted was to go back to bed, but Annabelle had kicked him out so she could get ready.

He wasn't quite sure what they had now. He had tried to ask in his awkward way, but she had brushed him off with a smile and a kiss and then he was staring at the door from the hallway.

"What should I call you?"

Alistair turned around to stare at Cullen. Annabelle was at the front, like she usually was, and Cullen was taking the rear. He was uncharacteristically quiet for someone in their party—even Sten usually grunted everyso often so they knew he was still with them, but Cullen had spent most of the morning ignoring Annabelle's small talk.

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked.

"What would be the proper way to call you?" Cullen repeated. "Ser Alistair, Your Lordship, Your Highness?"

"Sometimes people call him idiot," Annabelle volunteered from the front.

"Yes, well, Alistair is just fine," Alistair said.

Cullen nodded. "Have you and Lady Cousland traveled together for long?"

"It's Annabelle, Cullen," Annabelle said.

"Ever since she's been a Grey Warden," Alistair answered. "I was there at her Joining. It was quite tearful, actually. We went through the ceremony; I gave a funny yet insightful speech—"

"Some people died," interrupted Annabelle.

"But Annabelle survived, and that's all that mattered," Alistair said. "If it weren't for her, well, you'd probably have died in that Tower, and I'd be archdemon food."

Cullen ignored him, and they trekked on for a while.

Alistair was looking forward to rebuilding the Grey Wardens with Annabelle. He owed it to Duncan to make sure that the new batch of Wardens were prosperous in keeping the Darkspawn at bay. For the longest time, Grey Wardens had to struggle for allies, but now so many people and clans and races owed Annabelle, that he was sure it was a new beginning for them all.

"So, Cullen, what does it feel like to be out of the Tower?" Alistair asked.

"It's—it's pleasant," Cullen said. "I do not have family outside, so I rarely take advantage of days off."

"Not even a lady friend?"

"N—no. I am a Templar. We take _vows_, above all to respect our duty in keeping control of the Circle." Cullen paused. "You are a Templar. Surely you took the same vows, Alistair."

Annabelle laughed, but she was too far ahead for Alistair to be sure that she was laughing at Cullen.

"I didn't quite get to that step," Alistair said. "It was all fun and giggles and then I joined the Grey Wardens."

"Ah, so that must be why you and Lady Cousland are—"

"Are what," Alistair began to say, and then an arrow flew past his ear and embedded itself in the ground, just barely missing Cullen.

"Alistair, Darkspawn!" Annabelle yelled.

Annabelle had been thrown off balance, and she was kicking a Genlock off her. It gave a yell of surprised as she sank her dagger into its stomach. Annabelle jumped back onto her feet in a move that Alistair recognized as Zevran's.

"Cullen, keep them off her!" Alistair ordered.

He was grateful that Cullen didn't think about it twice. The Templar moved forward, using his shield to knock a few Genlocks off their feet. Annabelle was back to her usual self, and she had no trouble delivering stab after stab.

Alistair ran forward, sinking his sword into a Hurlock. The Hurlock swung back, and the hit brushed past Alistair's shoulder as he dodged it. Unfortunately the Hurlock was not ready for Annabelle, who came from behind, sinking her sword into its shoulder blade. The Hurlock gave one last growl, and then crumbled to the floor.

"They must have been retreating back down into the Deep Roads," Annabelle said, panting. "They weren't happy to see us."

"They ran off after we got the first few. Is that normal?" Cullen asked.

"No, that's a little weird. Darkspawn don't usually… give up." Annabelle shrugged. "Oh, well, I suppose we don't question it. Are you all right, Alistair?"

Alistair fingered a tear in his shirt. "Yeah, bastard managed to get the only gap in my armor. Nothing a little bandaging can't fix, though."

Annabelle looked around. "We might as well set up camp here. They won't be returning, and we could use a bit of rest before we continue on."

*

Cullen isn't well versed in understanding people, but he does understand that there is an aura of awkwardness around the Grey Wardens he has associated himself with. They both dance around each other, talking about future plans, Darkspawn, and him, but they also ignore what each other is really saying, and Cullen finds this odd since they have been traveling for a while now.

But Cullen understands where his place is, and it has nothing to do with what a failed Templar is playing with the Hero of Ferelden, so he ignores them for the most part, and offers to keep first watch. He is gazing into their campfire, half dozing off, when he hears a rustle near Lady Cousland's tent, and then he's on his feet.

There is a person—no, an _elf_—looking well armed, standing by the tent.

_A thief_, thinks Cullen, and he draws his sword. "Halt," he says.

The elf swerves around, also drawing his swords. "Who are you?" he asks, and his accent is foreign.

"That is none of your business, elf," Cullen says. "I suggest you make off before you get hurt."

The elf laughs. "Is that so? Perhaps I would suggest that _you_ make off before you get hurt," he says. "I belong here more than you do."

"I have slayed mages before, do not underestimate me thief," Cullen threatens.

There is a rustling inside the tent, and Lady Cousland comes out, holding her sword, looking tired and annoyed.

"What is going on—Zevran?" she says, to the elf, which Cullen thinks is ridiculous.

"Ah, my dear, this… odd person is insulting my good name by calling me a thief," the elf says. "And threatening to kill me," this last part is said mockingly.

"I—I was not!" says Cullen, flustered, because he is confused. "I caught him skulking around."

Lady Cousland sighs. "Cullen, this is Zevran. Zevran, this is Cullen. He is going to be joining the Grey Wardens."

Zevran nods once, and Cullen can tell he doesn't care at all who Cullen is.

"How was your… detour?" Lady Cousland asks her elf.

"It was deliciously fun," Zevran says. "Although, unfortunately, we did not—" Here he glances at Cullen suspiciously. "—we did not accomplish what we set out for. Leliana sends her regards, however. She has continued on to see the Ashes of Andraste, but promises to run into you in the future."

"Cullen, why don't you get some sleep? Zevran and I will take the next watch," Lady Cousland says.

Cullen retires to his tent, but he can still overhear their whispers. They mention names he does not recognize, and misleading campsites, and ignorant villagers, but most of all he can tell that Annabelle is upset by the news the elf brings her, and he wonders what this detour entailed, and why they're being so secretive about it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's notes:** Oh, a review! Thank you. Do leave more. They make us smile.

*

The thief turned out to be an assassin, which made Cullen slightly more wary and slightly more skeptical about his decision to become a Grey Warden. He was also Antivan, which doubled the number of alarms going off in Cullen's head.

"So, Alistair," the elf began, "I have been thinking that perhaps you made the wrong decision in giving up the throne."

"Oh?" said Alistair.

"If you were King, we would not all be going around, getting dirty and muddy, and instead we could be living in riches, having beautiful women give us baths," Zevran continued. "After all, I could be your head assassin, and Annabelle could have been your beautiful Queen. Perhaps even Sten might have found a position as a statue, yes?"

"Maybe, but you wouldn't have been my _head _assassin," Alistair said.

Zevran stopped in his tracks, looking appalled. "What? And why is that, dear Alistair?"

"Well, you're not very good, are you?" Alistair said. "I mean, you couldn't kill Annabelle, _could you_?"

Cullen snapped back to attention. "Wait, he tried to kill you?" he asked Annabelle.

"Lies, Alistair, all lies," Zevran assured them. "I was ready to give the final blow, but have you seen those eyes? It would have been a crime to take the life out of them. I did it out of the interest of beauty."

Alistair and Annabelle snorted. "Funny," Annabelle said. "I don't remember it that way."

"He tried to kill you?" Cullen tried again. "And you let him _live_?" These people were mad.

"If you must know, Templar," said Zevran, cutting Annabelle off. "It was my prowess in bed that spared my life."

Another snort, but Cullen didn't know what to believe any more. None of this ever appeared in any of the tales of Grey Wardens he had heard.

"Zevran has proved his loyalty," Annabelle said, smiling at him. "We trust him. Besides, he knows what would happen if he tried to kill me again."

"Ack, yes," Zevran agreed. "She is a scary woman, our Annabelle."

"I find you very surprising, Lady Cousland," Cullen said. "You have your own assassin. Perhaps eventually I will hear tales of how you even had a maleficarum under your command."

Alistair cleared his throat, and Cullen did not miss how Annabelle's head dropped. He quickly became aware that he had said the wrong thing.

*

"You keep avoiding me."

Annabelle turned around, although she knew Alistair had been standing behind her for a while. She clutched the firewood nervously.

"Do you regret…" he faltered, looking uncomfortable.

"No, no, of course not." Annabelle smiled. "I'm sorry, it just that—we had that moment, and now, we're here again, and we have Cullen and Zevran, and it's like—"

"Like you had a moment on an island and then you realized you were surrounded by Chantry sisters?" Alistair offered.

"Um, what?" Annabelle said.

Alistair laughed. "Just ignore me. I will just stand here and ramble and maybe look adorable." He moved forward, and took her in his arms, even though the wood was pressing into his chest. "You look so sad," he whispered. "Why?"

Annabelle sighed. "There's something I need to tell you," she began.

"Oh, no, let me guess. We didn't really kill the archdemon. Anora isn't really Queen. You're not really here." Alistair pretended to look disheartened. "I knew it. This is all a dream. I bet I've just had too much to drink and passed out in a ditch somewhere. I bet Oghren is even pissing on me."

"You are such an idiot," Annabelle mumbled.

"I hear it's one of my better qualities."

Annabelle took a deep breath. "IsentZevranafterMorrigan," she said.

"I'm sorry, what? I couldn't understand you when you string words together," Alistair said, but Annabelle could see in his eyes that he had caught on.

"I didn't want her to be out there alone… pregnant," Annabelle said.

"Anna—"

"And it's not that I don't trust her, because we are _friends_, no matter what you say, but she's out there, _alone_, and… and…"

"Annabelle, she doesn't _want_ to be found," Alistair said, sounding irritated. "And, personally, I don't want you to find her. She's a witch. She used your friendship to get me to give her a _baby_. We should probably just sic Cullen after her. Let him release some of that Templar frustration he has going on."

"She didn't use us. She helped us _live_," said Annabelle. "I just… wanted to make sure she would be all right."

"Annabelle, the normal person would appreciate it, but Morrigan… she'd probably just claw your eyes out and then eat them."

And Annabelle wanted to argue, because she didn't believe that, she _knew_ that Morrigan was a good person, but Alistair dropped the firewood to the ground, and then he was kissing her.

Annabelle felt her resolve weaken. Kissing Alistair was a little bit like that moment in a fight where you think you're done for, there's no way you can survive it, and then Zevran has backstabbed the Ogre, and Wynn has cast a healing spell on you, and _all is right_ _again_.

Annabelle was aware that she was on the floor, naked, and that the gravel and twigs were digging into her back, but there was something perfect about that moment, just her and Alistair, and knowing that Zevran would make sure that Cullen didn't interrupt them, and it was just that… privacy, something she hadn't had since she lived in a great estate.

"Maker's breath, I love you," Alistair said, as he entered her.

Annabelle gasped. Yes, perhaps this is what happiness felt like, she thought. She arched her back, encouraged him with moans and touches.

And then Alistair flipped her over, so she looked down on him, straddling him.

He looked so different than when they had first met. He had lost some of that boyish charm he had. These past months had hardened him, given him scars, aged him.

He would have made a good King, Annabelle thought. Even if he didn't believe so.

*

Zevran yawned. The fire was slowly dying out, and Alistair and Annabelle had not returned from gathering more wood. He was not stupid; his trained ear had heard the moans—Annabelle's—off in the thick of the forest, so he stayed put. It certainly wasn't his place to deny them these pleasures.

"So, Templar, what would you do if your calling had been different?" Zevran asked.

He had tried to coax conversation out of the soldier for some time now. Annabelle had told him that Cullen had been one of the surviving Templars stuck in the Tower, and that Cullen had withdrawn within himself, his hatred for Mages growing.

Well, that was just unacceptable for Zevran, who cared nothing for self-pity parties.

"I don't know. Templar is not something you choose to be," Cullen said, uncertainly. "I suppose I would be a farmer, perhaps with a family." Zevran did not miss the faint smile.

"How boring!" Zevran exclaimed. "Give up all this for a farm? You Fereldens are so depressing."

Cullen's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess, _you_ would still be an _assassin_," he said.

Zevran gave him one of his lazy grins. "I, my dear Templar, would be an Arl."

"Not a King?" Cullen asked.

"No, no, King's have everyone trying to assassinate them. Arls, only about half. But, as an Arl, I could have women and men fawning over me. More riches than I would need." Zevran gave a little sigh. "A statue in my honor, even."

"Really, Zev? I think you'd be bored with all that." Annabelle and Alistair had reappeared, sans firewood.

"Perhaps you would be in my life, my dear, and still make it interesting," Zevran offered.

"I thought you were going to get more wood," Cullen said, suspiciously.

"Oh, yes, about that," said Alistair. "There was this creature, see. Big and hairy and with teeth. Ate the wood. Yes, that's right. Just swooped down and ate it."

Cullen opened his mouth for a follow up.

And that's when they were ambushed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's notes:** I'm glad you guys are enjoying this! I'm taking a 2 week holiday, so there probably won't be an update until after that, but do check in!

*

Annabelle opened her eyes. She was aware that she was lying on the floor, and she was aware that her head felt like an Ogre was inside of her, trying to get out.

"Oh, this is entirely too familiar," she whispered, sitting up. She was in a cell. Nothing as fancy as Fort Drakon, but it was definitely a cell.

At least she still had her clothes on.

"Lady Cousland," a voice said.

"And you're not Alistair."

Cullen looked at her, confused. "I—no, I'm _Cullen_, my lady."

"Cullen," Annabelle said, irritably, "I don't know where we are, and I don't know why we're imprisoned, but so help me, if you don't call me Annabelle I'm going to _slaughter_ you."

Cullen looked taken back. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, "I think we're being held hostage by the Dalish… _Annabelle_."

Well, that made sense. Annabelle looked around. The ground was dirt, the door didn't look that sturdy, the whole thing had probably been made on the spot to hold them in. That probably meant that—

—_bam_! Annabelle kicked the door down, and saw a dozen arches pointing their arrows at her.

Annabelle lifted her hands, and she was pretty sure she could hear Cullen choking on his own surprise. "My name is Annabelle Cousland," she said. "I'm part of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

There were countless tribes of Dalish that travelled. She knew she wouldn't be lucky to have fought alongside them, but they had probably heard of her by now.

"We do not welcome shems in these parts," one of the archers said. "Grey Wardens or otherwise."

"We were just passing through. If you would kindly release me and my friends, we will continue on our way up north," Annabelle said.

"You brought the Darkspawn to our forest," the archer said. "We chased them out."

_Oh_, thought Annabelle, remembering the night before. That's who had ambushed them; another roaming band of Darkspawn.

"Then… my friends…" Annabelle said.

"The other two—the elf and the heavy-looking one—they were taken," the archer said.

"Ah, so you were… trying to help us." Annabelle sighed. Well, Alistair and Zevran were more than capable of getting them out…as long as they weren't killed while they were unconscious.

"We shall take you to Keeper Armand," the archer said. "So you can gather your things and leave."

*

Keeper Armand was a lot more uptight than Zathrian had been—and that was saying something.

"I cannot accompany you back to your camp site today," Armand said, looking tired. "We have an important ceremony tonight, and I must be present."

Annabelle growled in frustration. "Then just tell us in what direction to head, and we'll go alone!"

"I understand that you're a Grey Warden, but you _won't_ find your way around it, much less the direction in which the Darkspawn went." Armand glared right back at the Warden.

"Lady—Annabelle," said Cullen, "maybe we should just stay here over night. You still have some wounds that need healing."

"But, Alistair—"

"He's a Templar _and_ a Grey Warden," Cullen interrupted. "I know they'll be fine."

Annabelle was unsatisfied, but she could see that no one was on her side. "Pray by the Maker that nothing happens to them, Cullen, or I'll have _your_ head," and she stormed off.

*

Despite what Zevran said, there was nothing Alistair found fun about being tied up.

"I think they're going to eat," Alistair said, struggling against the rope that tied him to a makeshift stake.

"Or feed us to one another," agreed Zevran. "Either way, dear Alistair, I suggest we think of a way to get out of this."

Alistair grunted. The Darkspawn had dragged them through the forest, tied them up, and now seemed to be figuring out what to do with them—or at least, which one to eat first (he hoped they chose Zevran).

There was a fire going, and he could tell they had none been camped long. Probably another horde making their way back underground.

"No sign of our fearless leader," Zevran said. "Or the other one, the grumpy one."

Alistair was worried. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, and there was no sign of where they might be holding Annabelle, unless—

_No_. He wouldn't think about that.

"Alistair, I would just like to know that it has been an honor to fight alongside you," Zevran said.

"We're not going to die, Zev," Alistair muttered.

"Ah, Alistair, always the fighter. I love that about you." Zevran had stopped trying to struggle against his ropes. "I had hoped that I would die by the blade of a lover. Perhaps, if I close my eyes…."

For the first time, Alistair had wished he was a mage. Then at least he could set something on fire.

The Darkspawn looked like they were done talking. One of them grabbed a burning log out of the fire, and they started advancing.

Alistair glared. He would go down as a soldier, not breaking a sweat. He would think of Annabelle and good food and go to his happy place. He would—

Alistair realized that the air was feeling a little thicker. It almost seemed to be crackling. Perhaps the Maker was giving them an appropriate goodbye.

"Yarrgh," yelled Zevran. "I got zapped. What zapped me?"

Alistair closed his eyes and then opened them again. He was not seeing things; the air _was_ crackling. Electricity was coming down all around the Darkspawn. They were getting frantic, looking for the cause, shooting arrows into the sky and into the bushes. A few of them were turning into ice

"Alistair," Zevran said, his tone in warning.

Alistair felt his skin prickle. This had to be the work of a powerful mage. But who had followed them into the thick of the forest?

The Darkspawn fell. And then, her silhouette framed by the fire, Morrigan emerged from the shadows.


	7. Chapter 7

"What are _you_ doing here?" The venom in Alistair's tone could not be missed.

"Relax, Alistair, I am not here for you." Morrigan looked no different than she had a few months ago. Alistair glared at her stomach, wondering if the folds of her robe hid the baby inside of her.

"Morrigan, you do have impeccable timing," Zevran said, looking unimpressed. "What brings you back to our little team? My roguish good looks? Alistair's remarkable baby making techniques?"

Alistair felt himself blush. He _hated_ Zevran. _Hated_.

"I have come to see Annabelle, but obviously she's too clever to let herself be held hostage by a group of cowardly Darkspawn," Morrigan said.

There was a pause where Alistair tried to think of a smart comment. It stung the end of his tongue, but never came out. "Well, we don't know where she is!" he ended, lamely. Morrigan had the amazing ability to make him feel like a very stupid, very foolish five-year-old.

Morrigan laughed, one of those laughs that made Alistair's skin crawl. How could Annabelle consider her a _friend_?

"I know where our Warden is," Morrigan said. "Follow if you like."

"Sounds good!" Zevran agreed, but Alistair would have preferred to walk off a cliff.

*

Annabelle didn't know what the Dalish ceremony was about, but she did know they had some really, _really_ good food. So while the Dalish, most of them young, shared food and spoke in a mixture of words Annabelle could both understand and couldn't, she ate.

Cullen did not eat. In fact, Cullen was sitting as rigid as the mage's tower, looking too out of place and too afraid to even eat. Which, in Annabelle's opinion, was a shame.

"You should try this dish," she offered. "I think it's meat but with… some sort of citrus flavor. It's delicious!"

"Do you always eat this much?" he asked.

Annabelle suddenly felt self-conscious. "Well, when you're camping all the time, you appreciate good food."

"But he's a maleficarum," Cullen said. "The Tower does not approve of mages leading the elves. We should report him."

"Not your worry any more, Cullen." Annabelle conceded that the sweet potato-looking plate was too good to let pass.

"But you saw the Tower, how it was overrun! How can you let him go!"

Annabelle sighed. She didn't want to do this. She wanted to eat, and perhaps drink a little, and maybe even dance. She wanted to pretend she was still a noble, living in a world where she didn't have to worry about elves hating her, Templars hating her, the world hating her.

"Let's dance!" she said, jumping out of her seat. She was wearing the slip that she wore under the armor, and it was a little transparent from the light of the fires, but she figured it was no worse than what some of the elves were wearing.

"I—I—" Cullen stammered. He looked confused. "But they're _elves_," he finished, meekly.

"Yes, and they dance, too," said Annabelle. "Just like me and you. I know you dance. Alistair says they teach you."

Cullen stood up. Annabelle thought he was going to make a run for it, but instead he held out his hand. "Only if you let me lead," he said.

Annabelle smiled, and let him guide her to the dancing elves. "Why, dear Cullen, what would ever make you think that I'm a leader?"

*

The Dalish woke up extremely early, despite their festivities, and the sound of bows being strung, arrows being sharpened, and overall the annoying sound of _awakening_ forced Cullen to open his eyes.

He was in a tent, not a cell, and he found that reassuring. He also felt warm, like someone had covered him with a thick blanket, but he didn't want to move. The past few weeks had happened so quickly, blurred into memories and automatic reactions, that he welcomed the few minutes to collect his thoughts.

And then something moved to his side, resting up against him, warm and soft.

Cullen scrambled out of the bed, briefly aware that he was in a state of undress, and then aware that he was staring at the very naked back of his leader.

His head started thumping, just as badly as when he had been held prisoner in his own Tower.

The Grey Warden made a nose, sat up, stretched, and Cullen tried to will his eyes closed as he took in her curves, her breasts, an odd scar here and there.

He cleared his throat, because that seemed to be the sensible thing.

He had to give Annabelle credit; she didn't scream, she didn't pull a sword out of somewhere (although he didn't know where should could have kept it anyway). She just looked at him, her eyes wider, her mouth a little open, and she said, "Oh. Oh…."

And then she pulled a sheet over herself, and he scampered to pull his pants back on, and the moment suddenly became real.

"What… what…?" she said.

"Maleficarum," Cullen said. And he felt it, deep inside of him. "I _warned_ you. The elves, they cannot be trusted. Unsupervised magic, left to develop, unguided, it will—"

"Oh, shut up," Annabelle snapped, and Cullen was hurt that she would interrupt him like that.

Annabelle threw on her clothes, seeming to no longer care that Cullen could see everything, and then she marched out of the tent.

Cullen followed, because even if she felt she could trust the Dalish, he had heard stories and read books, and he knew that blood magic had to be at fault for their situation.

Armand and Annabelle were already arguing by the time Cullen found them. More specifically, Annabelle was doing a lot of yelling, and Armand looked annoyed.

"I have told you, Warden, we did nothing. You attended our annual mating ceremony," Armand said.

"So you force people to marry one another?" Annabelle yelled.

Cullen felt the pounding in his head increase. _Marry_?

"We do not _force_ anything. You _shems_ might mistake infatuation and lust for emotion, but the Dalish spend months, even years, courting their life mate. Then they seal that promise with the mating ceremony." Armand raised a hand. "If it makes you feel better, Warden, whatever happened last night will not hold up to any shem laws. Us Dalish do not acknowledge your… mishaps, and neither will your people."

Annabelle grunted something at him, and then turned around. Cullen felt her gaze rest on him. It made his skin prickle, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It had not been a night of drinking. He knew they both remembered last night. He blushed remembering how comfortable it had felt for him to hold her.

But _why_? How had they got to that point? He was not blind; he knew that she had bedded Alistair. It had to be blood magic. They had been put under a spell.

And then he noticed; she wasn't looking at _him_. She was looking past him.

Cullen turned around. Behind him, looking like a group of lost dogs, stood Alistair and Zevran. And in front of them, a woman, and Cullen could _feel_ the magic come off her in waves.

He stepped protectively in front of Annabelle, even though he still didn't have his sword. He had made an oath, a promise; he would not allow some mage to kill the Hero of Ferelden.

"What are you doing here, mage?" he said.

The woman raised an eyebrow, and he knew she was assessing him. "I do not care for you, Templar. I am here to see Annabelle."

Cullen was sure his head was about to explode when Annabelle gently moved him out of the way, and then gave the mage a hug.

"Cullen," she said, "this is Morrigan."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's notes:** Sue me, I like Morrigan. I think she has personality and, damn it, why not make an awkward situation worse? Thank you for the reviews. Do keep them coming!

*

"Are you—are you _pregnant_?"

There, Annabelle had asked the taboo question. She held a breath, waiting.

"Obviously, or Ferelden would have one Grey Warden less." Morrigan smiled. It wasn't sincere; it was hunger, like a predator. It was Morrigan's smile.

"What does it feel like?" Annabelle wanted to reach out, touch Morrigan's stomach. She wanted _proof_ of her cowardice. Why die when you could bring an old God to the world, right?

"Like I'll never be able to wash Alistair off me." Morrigan laughed at herself. Then she straightened herself, as though remembering they weren't meeting for a social visit. "I asked you not to follow, and you said you would respect my wishes."

"I lied," Annabelle said, shrugging. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm not."

Annabelle paused. This was not how she had seen it in her head. Her script involved her apologizing, Morrigan threatening her, and then Morrigan turning into a crow or a harpy or _something_ and then leaving them all over again.

"What do you mean?" Annabelle asked, and she looked at Morrigan. The witch looked the same, her clothes, her demeanor, no hint of an injury or even her pregnancy yet.

And then there it was, in her face, a signal of distress and pain. The same look she had when Flemeth had ordered her to go with them.

"This…child has thrown my body up and down. My magic…sometimes it works and sometimes it…fails to even set a spark. I was lucky with those Darkspawn; the child saw it fit to save Alistair and Zevran. Half the time I can't even light a campfire. My body will be this way until I give birth. I need to go up north. There's an old…tribe who will care for me while I go through the pregnancy." Morrigan sighed.

Annabelle knew what was coming. "You want me to go with you," she said, softly. She was not an idiot; the forest was quiet. Too quiet for them to be so close to a Dalish camp. She'd put her money down that Zevran was watching them.

"I know I am in no position to ask for such a favor," Morrigan said. "Twas not in my plans to come back, but you sent those two cretins to seek me out, so I came back." She touched her stomach slightly, and Annabelle involuntarily flinched. "The tribe is on your way to Amaranthine, where we can part ways."

Alistair was going to kill her. _Kill her_, and then, quite possible, feed her to the Darkspawn himself.

So Annabelle smiled and said, "Yes. Of course we'll accompany you."

*

Cullen stared at Alistair, and Alistair stared back. Cullen wasn't quite sure what to say. I slept with your leader. I think I might be married to your partner. I have no idea why I'm here; I'd like to go home. Does nobody believe in mages being kept under watch anymore?

"Do you think Zevran will get close enough?" Alistair asked.

Cullen shrugged. Somehow he had been convinced to draw straws to see who would try to listen in on Annabelle's and Morrigan's conversation.

"Wouldn't it be obvious for the assass—rogue to go?" Cullen asked.

Alistair had found a stick, and had begun to draw shapes in the dirt. "Hrm? Oh, well, yeah, but Zevran…if he hears anything, he'll come back and charge you for the information." Alistair squinted at the dirt as though it would help his art. "So what was it like being stuck here?"

Cullen tensed. Did Alistair know anything? Was this a trick question? What should he say? Alistair was waiting for an answer.

"U-uh—it w-was." Blast, he was stuttering again.

"The Dalish aren't best known for their social skills," Alistair agreed. "Probably had to stay in your tent, didn't you?"

Cullen thought a change of subject would be appropriate, so he said, "This Morrigan. A-are you…friends?"

Alistair laughed; it was one of those hollow laughs that Cullen had laughed himself when he heard the mages would be spared. "No, definitely not friends," said Alistair.

And Cullen dropped the topic, because he wasn't _that_ dense. _What tangled webs we weave_, he thought. And Annabelle was in the thick of it.

There was a rustling in the bushes, and then Zevran appeared, looking especially delighted at what he had to bring.

"Oh no, let me guess," said Alistair, who seemed no stranger to Zevran's expressions.

"Dear Alistair, you won't even barter with me for the price of this information?" Zevran pretended to look hurt.

"How about I tell you what I think it is, and then you can just laugh at me while I dig myself a hole?" Alistair offered. "Cullen can even hit me over the head with a shovel."

"That sounds much better than what I was going to propose," Zevran agreed.

Alistair groaned.

But he didn't get the chance to talk, because Annabelle and Morrigan appeared, and, for some reason, Cullen suddenly knew what Alistair dreaded.

"Morrigan will be joining us," Annabelle announced. "We're both heading to Amaranthine, and then Morrigan will go her own way."

Cullen locked eyes with Morrigan. She raised one eyebrow, rolled her eyes, and then turned away. Cullen felt his body lock in place. She was _evil_, he could sense it. She was like those abominations in the tower. He would have to kill her, protect Annabelle and the Grey Wardens.

"Great! Let's say goodbye to the Dalish, and head north." Annabelle waited for someone to agree with her. "This is going to be a long trip, isn't it?"


	9. Chapter 9

_She wasn't wearing anything. She had been, definitely, but now…she just _wasn't_. Somewhere in between, "Andraste's mercy, does it feel hot to you?" and "Yes, so pants should come off," she had become very, very naked._

_ And he was on top of her, almost close to her state of undress. In a way, he didn't know who she was. Her name, her status, it was somewhere in his head, on the tip of his tongue, but it flitted away, and he just wanted her._

_ "Please don't tell me I have to teach you," she murmured, and she was doing this thing with her fingers that involved touching and squeezing, and something that was probably illegal in most towns._

_ "I-I-no," he said—grunted, really. He nudged her hips. "Templars…we r-release. Need a release." Maker's balls, he didn't want to talk._

_ He lowered his head, nipping at her neck, enjoying the way her skin trembled beneath him._

_ "Good, good," she whispered. "It's like dancing, really. Or sparring, even. Except, you know, in the horizontal position."_

_ He chose that moment to kiss her, if anything to shut her up, and she arched into him, her breasts cold against his skin. It was hot, so hot, even though it was night time, and his skin seemed to burn. There was an itch in his stomach, a hunger, and it twisted and churned._

_ She gasped as he entered her. She whispered something, a name, maybe, he couldn't hear. All he could feel was her, and, Andraste help him, he wanted to die like this: blissfully._

*

Being a Templar wasn't as exciting as recruiters made it out to be. Yes, you had a nice roof over your head, a warm meal three times a day, but a lot of that day consisted of standing in a hallway and, well, and just _waiting_.

Cullen lived in the Tower for most of his life, and, if he had to add up the numbers, he was confident to say he had spent three quarters of that time waiting—waiting for a mage to step out of line, waiting for the walls to shake, waiting for everything to burn down.

It took him fifteen years for it all to happen.

But! In those years, he had mastered the art of watching. Not understanding, really, because it's hard to understand people when you're barely one yourself sometimes. And, Maker's sweat, it was hard to read a mage because they talked in magic, not in words, and a Templar had no business understanding magic.

Cullen understood movement. The tensing of muscles, the arch of an eyebrow, the rise and fall of a chest, those he could follow. And he knew that Morrigan's arrival had brought a lot of unsaid conversation.

Alistair, for example, had spent the past two hours walking on Annabelle's right side, leaving ample space between him and the witch-mage.

Annabelle, who's movements were fluid, was a little more subtle. Her calves would only tense when Cullen got too close. She would turn her head, give a half-smile of nervousness, and then her pace would quicken by a fraction so there would be more space in between of the.

Morrigan did not change. She walked upright, never looking at the ground, her eyes focused on some faraway object. She threw insults at Alistair when he spoke, but she never looked at him, and it didn't seem like it took much effort for her to rile him up. Plus, Cullen knew, she was with child; a slip of the tongue from Annabelle. It showed a bit in her shoulders, tightened and stiff.

Even Zevran, Cullen could see, had changed. Even though the rogue offered comment after comment ("Morrigan, I hear there are wonderful things magic can do for the sexual libido." "Yes, Zevran. Such as I could make your penis explode."), Cullen could see his fists clench, grazing his daggers, as though he expected a fight.

But, even though Cullen could see all of that, he didn't understand why. At some point the dynamic had shifted, and not just because he had bedded Annabelle (an experience he was sure no one else knew).

"_We r-release. Need a release_."

He cursed himself. How could he have let that happen? Templars were supposed to be under control, in body and mind. Greagoir, discreetely, approved visits to brothels, since it was the easiest way for a Templar to rid themselves of impure thoughts. It avoided Templars and mages from…fraternizing.

"Tell us, Cullen, you must have enjoyed the touches of a girl once."

Cullen jerked to attention. Of course, it was Zevran who wanted to know.

"N-no, I-Templars can't," Cullen said. That's right, give them the standard answer. Templar manual, page 23, Templars may not lay in a sexual manner. Page 56, a Templar serves only the Maker and his bride.

"Yes, yes, that is what you _say_," continued Zevran. "But I have heard stories. Templars in the Pearl, Templars with hidden wives." He grinned. "Templars with mages."

"A Templar can never have a relationship with a mage," Cullen said, appalled. "To do so…to do so is a violation of the Chantry and a Templar's teachings."

"You forget, Zevran, the Tower is a prison for all those in it, not just mages," Morrigan said.

"Have you ever been to the Tower?" Cullen sneered.

Morrigan laughed. "Of course not, Templar. Do I look like a bird who will let itself be imprisoned?"

"Tch, to never be able to be with someone," said Alistair. "Good thing Duncan got me out of there." He looked at Annabelle.

"Oh, do spare us from those puppy dog eyes, Alistair," Morrigan said.

"Hrm, so you spend your life in a Tower, with so many delectable women and men," Zevran continued. "You watch them, and they watch you, and you never lay a finger on them. You must be ready to explode."

Annabelle blushed, but no one took notice.

"Mages…go through many challenges," Cullen settled for. "We Templars are there to ensure that they do not let their magic get the best of them."

"Ah, so there _was_ a girl." Zevran grinned.

"She was a mage," Cullen said, feeling his voice come out rough. "She didn't make it past the…she couldn't leave the Fade. I had to stop."

"Kill her, you mean?" Morrigan held his gaze. There was something in those eyes that made Cullen grit his teeth, his hand holding onto the butt of his sword. "Yes, quite noble, sending young mages off to the Fade."

"There is nothing noble about being turned into an abomination," Cullen snapped.

"And, we're here!" Annabelle said. "Look, the town of Changhair!"

They had reached the bridge. A mixture of buildings and filth lay before them. The stench of death and pigs wafted in the air. It must have been market day because several people were out on the streets. They looked unclean and unshaven, even the women, and they bartered with grunts and accusations.

"What a beautiful town," Zevran said, drily. "This must be where Ferelden deposits its waste, yes?"


End file.
